


One Black Tree

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 09:05:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair and Jim both do some soul searching concernng the status of their friendship</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Black Tree

## One Black Tree

by Sharilyn

Not mine. No infringement intended. No money being made.

A nice little bit of smarm from Blair

I was in a melancholy, introspective mood when this popped into my head, and the emotions within me were fueled by the sight of an old, dead tree I spied in front of an abandoned house I passed while out driving. The feelings that the tree evoked in me merged with my rather romnatic imaginings concerning Jim and Blair, and voila', instant vignette. The companion piece to this story is "The Craving."   


* * *

Entrance 

~Rilke~ 

Whoever you are: in the evening step out of your room, where you know everything; yours is the last house before the far-off: whoever you are.   
With your eyes, which in their weariness barely free themselves from the worn-out threshold, you lift very slowly one black tree   
and place it against the sky: slender, alone. And you have made the world. And it is huge and like a word which grows ripe in silence. And as your will seizes on its meaning, tenderly your eyes let it go... 

* * *

Can I do it; can I ever let him go? The thought circles restlessly, tormentingly, in Blair Sandburg's mind as he walks out into the rain-washed evening, the scent of pine and the slow, sweet ache of suppressed regrets filling all the empty spaces in his soul. All around him the world is temporarily made new, giving itself over to a few precious moments of innocent hope, of wistful yearning for something sacred, something precious and inviolate here in the land of shattered dreams and darkness. But in the warm, secret rush of blood, of melancholy in Blair's quiet heart, the fear of the new, of the dawning of truth, has him closing his eyes to the naked vulnerability he surprises in the anonymous faces passing on the sidewalk all around him. Easier just to put his head down, easier just to keep moving, always moving... 

As he walks, hands tucked into the pockets of his frayed jacket, Blair feels the soft, heavy brush of his own unkempt hair curling wildly at his neck; the gentle tickling of several loose strands against his nape sends a tremor--an almost imperceptible frisson of delicious sensation--down his spine now as the tactile stimulation evokes within him memories of a similar and no less pleasant touch on the sensitive skin of his neck earlier this evening. 

If Blair concentrates he can still feel it, the light stroking of Jim's fingers beneath his partner's unruly mane of hair; the younger man could have sworn that in that particular moment he himself became something of a sentinel, able to catalogue each individual swirl and whorl on the pads of Jim's long, strong fingers as they massaged Blair's exquisitely sensitized skin. The brief physical contact had seemingly meant nothing more to Jim than a fond gesture of wry affection--just a quick glide of those marvelously sensitive digits across the receptive nerves covering every inch of Blair's nape before those same deft fingers slid up to entangle themselves in curling tendrils of light brown hair, tugging once, playfully...and then the contact had ended, and Blair found himself standing alone in the kitchen, stunned and shaken and completely devastated by the force of the realization thundering in his ears with every pulsebeat of his heart. 

God, how can I ever let him go? he thinks again now, a mute wail of despair spiralling up and up, spinning like a dervish within his constricted chest. A chill has fallen over the street with dusk's steady advance, and Blair huddles deeper now into the reluctant warmth of his frayed jacket, his hands clenching and unclenching rhythmically within the garment's thin pockets. Why didn't I see this coming, Blair thinks morosely to himself as his methodical steps slow to a mindless trudging along the sidewalk; how could I have failed to realize what's been happening inside me since I moved in with Jim? 

Eyes lifting to make a rather distracted survey of his surroundings, Blair's gaze fastens onto the severe lines of a dead, twisted tree still embedded in the hard soil of an empty lot off to his left. Sere and ugly, its brittle black limbs contorted into surrealistic tangles of weirdly geometric agony, the tree nonetheless retains an air of strange dignity, exuding a hint of some dark, painful beauty at its ruined core. No one's told it it's dead, poor thing, Blair finds himself thinking now with a macabre, fanciful sort of pity twisting at his heart; years after its sap has dried up and its roots have shriveled into useless, crumbling stanchions in the neglected dirt of the lot, the tree still stands, helpless to do anything else, helpless to end its own forgotten torment. Blair imagines now that--even dead--the soul of the tree lingers on inside the dessicated trunk, enraged by all it has suffered, crying out for someone to pay attention, to hear its pain and release it from its horrible purgatory here in the midst of the humans' soul-crushing city. 

How many times have I walked right past it, never even seeing it; how many years did it stand in that spot, vibrant and green and alive, before some sickness, some insidious, creeping rot, curdled it from the inside out and warped its branches into such anguished deformities? Blair thinks to himself now with somber empathy. When did things start to go bad inside it, and why was nothing done to save it? Did no one care, did no one even see its need, its suffering? Oh, my God, I am that tree, shriveling and dying inside a little bit more each day, while on the outside no one sees, no one knows...not even Jim. Especially not Jim. 

My God, how blind is he, and how freaking blind am I; how many signs have I missed in my life lately, just as I've missed really _seeing_ this tree? How many feelings have the both of us allowed to fester in silence concerning our bond, our friendship, all because we haven't wanted to face the truth, haven't wanted to admit just how fucking scared we both are of the terrible power of this love, this need, surging up from deep inside our most private, hidden souls? He feels it as strongly as I do, I know he does; I see it in his eyes sometimes, feel it in the way he looks at me through those long, veiled lashes of his when he thinks I don't notice... 

I won't let us be like this tree, Blair finds himself thinking with sudden, savage fury tightening his jaw; eyes sparking a glare that is part pity, part challenge toward the contorted skeleton of the solitary tree, Blair blinks back a rush of unexpected tears and pulls himself as straight and tall as he is able. Night is falling, bringing down its merciful cape of black oblivion to hide the tree's blasted soul from the uncaring eyes of a world moving on without it, never missing or mourning it; but just as the arthritic spears of bare branches fade into indistinct, almost gentle blurs of darkness against the deeper darkness surrounding them, Blair finds himself whispering a silent benediction to the spirit of the tree, his gloriously alive and emotional heart filling with a strange, inexplicable joy as he slowly turns and walks away. 

I'm coming home, Jim, he thinks, retracing his previous route with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation increasing his heart rate; after months and months of this careful, brittle tiptoeing around each other, of unrelenting tension broken only occasionally by all-too-brief moments of connection, I'm coming home. To you, to us, to all the things we've both denied, repressed, avoided. And God, I'm scared; geez, Jim, you can probably hear my heart racing all the way back at the loft. But it's okay--please tell me it's okay, that _we're_ going to be okay. No, dammit, more than that. So much more than that. 

And as Blair absently tucks his riotous mass of unrestrained curls beneath the loose collar of his shirt, his footsteps quickening on the still-damp concrete of the sidewalk beneath him, he imagines he can feel the soul of the tree watching his lean form dwindle and disappear into the darkness, fleeing from hopelessness to rejuvenation, from the pain of unrequited loneliness to the warmth and light of Jim's loft, Jim's concerned gaze, Jim's blessed, protective hands so filled with gentleness, with secret need... 

Home, I'm going home, Blair exults, and as the familiar outline of the building that contains his heart, his purpose, his soul, appears out of the darkness before him, his glad eyes take in the added bonus of Jim standing out front, keen blue eyes searching the gloom for the one figure his own powerful Sentinel heart cannot be without. 

All things made new, Jim, Blair thinks, dry-mouthed and giddy; all things new. And with his eyes a blaze of light and victory, the younger man surges forward to meet the older, falling back into the arms of sanctuary, of sanity. 

* * *

End One Black Tree by Sharilyn: sharilyn2@earthlink.net

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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